


From Dust

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Gen, Knight-Enchanters, Wintersend Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: "I do not think," the Empress says, "that humility becomes you."Vivienne through the years — moments, significant and otherwise.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathybites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathybites/gifts).



1.

The visitors are from Orlais, and some of the younger ones have already made fools of themselves attempting to catch a glimpse. Vivienne would do nothing of the sort, of course. She is not a _child;_ she is sixteen and nearly a full year past her Harrowing, even if they think her still too young to be named an Enchanter.

Besides, there is a window in a hidden corner of the library. It provides an excellent view over the Circle garden, including the small yard used for the practice of more exuberant magical pursuits.

Cracking the window open a touch, Vivienne can smell the flowers from the garden and hear laughter on the wind. The First Enchanter is in the yard, along with the visitors from Orlais — an Enchanter and a Templar with an air of importance around them. The Templar draws her sword and raises her shield, and the Orlesian Enchanter positions herself in front of her in a way that looks almost ceremonial. In her right hand, she holds her beautifully carved wooden staff, while her left hand is placed on her hip.

Breath held, Vivienne watches as the moment stretches on. A bird caws in the distance and the wind makes the trees hum around the yard. 

As if on cue, the Templar and the Enchanter begin. A bright burst of fire flares from the Enchanter's staff and the Templar raises her shield, flames parting around it. Stepping forward, her sword grazes against a shimmering barrier as the Enchanter takes a step backwards, and another. The Templar advances, pushing forward with her shield raised. 

Then, in a flash of light, the Enchanter raises her left arm and from the hilt in her hand springs forward a shimmering blade lifted straight out of the Fade, woven by the very essence of magic.

And now the sparring takes on a new quality. It's quick, back and forth, almost playful in the way they dance around each other. Of course Vivienne excels at offensive magic — there is nothing the Enchanters have taught her that she doesn't excel at — but this is something different. Heart fluttering wildly in her chest, she cannot tear her eyes from it.

By some invisible signal, the Templar and the Enchanter lower their weapons simultaneously, the Fade sword disappearing into thin air. The demonstration is clearly over, and the First Enchanter says something that Vivienne cannot hear, even when she surreptitiously leans further out the window. Perhaps it is that movement that draws the attention of the foreign Enchanter, or perhaps it is simply a coincidence that has her glancing up towards the window where Vivienne is perched. For a moment, their eyes meet.

Caught, Vivienne pulls her robes up and runs.

The next morning brings another sunny day, the scent of lilacs thick from the garden. Vivienne is given permission to go outside and collect flowers to be dried and preserved for alchemical use, and so she spends the morning in the cool shade. That's where the Enchanter with the magic blade finds her. The gossip over breakfast says she is Senior Enchanter Marie of the Montsimmard Circle. They say she has tea with the Emperor and that she brought real Antivan chocolate for the First Enchanter — but none of the gossip mentioned the sword. Besides the First Enchanter, only Vivienne could have seen her use it, and she will not share that secret, not for anything in the world.

She seems smaller up close, almost a hand's span shorter than Vivienne, who is perpetually growing out of her robes. Delicate features with little wrinkles around the eyes, her black hair is streaked with gray and done up in a complex set of braids and curls. Her robes are like nothing Vivienne has ever seen.

"Good morning, Enchanter," Vivienne says, holding her basket tightly as she gives a polite, perfectly measured curtsey.

"Vivienne, is it?" she replies, Orlesian accent turning Vivienne's name into something foreign and beautiful. "Your First Enchanter told me about you."

Of course she did. Vivienne knows how they talk; she's heard the whispers and felt her own strength, seen her comrades struggle with things that come as easy to her as breathing. When she passed her Harrowing last year, she was the youngest to do so in a century. Standing a little taller, she nods.

"A talent at such a young age," the Enchanter observes, giving Vivienne an appraising look.

A statement of fact, and hardly the first time someone has remarked on it, but it still sends a cold shiver of discomfort down Vivienne's spine. For a moment, she can hear the demon from her Harrowing with startling intensity, the words falling from its beautiful lips. _You are not like the other apprentices, are you? What an unusual talent you are._

Vivienne turns to the next lilac tree, taking care to examine the flowers until the dread in the pit of her stomach dissipates. 

This part of the garden is decorated with a statue of Andraste and a chessboard carved out of stone. Sometimes, Vivienne has peeked out through the hidden window in the library to find the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter playing chess together, looking quite different to the stern, intimidating faces Vivienne is used to seeing.

The Enchanter runs her fingers over the worn old chessboard. "Do you play?" she wonders asks, fingers twitching.

Vivienne shakes her head with emphasis. There are other chess boards inside and she has been taught the rules of this stupid game. Unable to master it during her first attempts and losing to her fellow apprentices quite more than she wished to, she quickly made the decision to never play again.

"What a pity," the Enchanter sighs. "I have not played a decent game since we departed from Orlais. My dear Templar companion is Fereldan — she's good with a sword, but cannot tell a rook from a pawn, poor thing."

Saying nothing, Vivienne cuts another flower from the tree, adding it to the collection in her basket. This is the one task she always does as leisurely as she can manage. The chance to be outside without supervision is a rare one — impossible for an apprentice, but the last year has given her new responsibilities. Her teachers must know because in no other task does she dawdle like this, but nothing has been mentioned and no reproach has come.

The Enchanter watches her collect her flowers with a curious look in her eyes. "I've heard that you excel in the alchemical arts," she says eventually. "Are you planning to join the Formari?"

"Yes, Enchanter. I enjoy improving the efficiency of potions especially."

"Yes," the Enchanter says, "it's easy to enjoy the things you're good at."

The criticism is clear. Vivienne frowns — what could this _battle_ mage possibly know about the subtle art of alchemy? Unlike the application of force magic, one does not achieve results there by hitting someone over the head. The fact that it comes easily for Vivienne hardly means it's a simple field to practice in.

"You are spoiled here, little mage," the Enchanter continues. "A big fish in a little pond. It will bore you in the long run."

Raising her chin, Vivienne's hands tighten on the basket. Being naturally gifted does not mean she hasn't worked for her skills, and there is no reason to refer to her as 'little'. She is no longer an apprentice, even if she doesn't yet hold the privileges that come with being accepted as an adult mage. "I must return inside," she says. "My teachers are expecting me."

"I saw you, yesterday, in the window. _Looking_."

Face heating, Vivienne forces her gaze not to waver. "The library is quite dusty. The fresh air improves my concentration when I study."

"Curiosity is not a bad thing, dear. Would you like to hold this?"

In her outstretched hand is an elaborate sword hilt — a round pommel adorned by opals, a worn grip and a curved silverite cross-guard. Everything but the blade. It compels her, hand moving before she can think to resist.

The hilt is made for the hand of another, but it still makes something inside of her sing to touch it. 

"It would be a shame if you were to stay in these backwaters, stagnating and letting your talent go to waste," the Enchanter adds, putting her hand over Vivienne's on the hilt. 

She feels it in every part of herself when the Enchanter draws on her magic, how it lights up threads of the Fade woven through the hilt, as if a spirit was trapped there and oh — the power of it fills her up the brim. It is no secret that Vivienne loves beautiful things, and this, this spectral blade, created from dust by the power of the Enchanter's mind, is the most beautiful thing she's ever laid eyes on.

"You cannot learn to be a Knight-Enchanter in the Free Marches," the Enchanter says. "You must come to Orlais, my dear."

 

2.

Four years since she arrived to Montsimmard, and the ever-changing fashions of Val Royeaux are settling into her bones. 

Collars laced with gemstones and long skirts with trains are in fashion that season in Val Royeaux, but a mage must always operate under a different set of rules. Vivienne's robes brand her as an Enchanter, for anyone who knows what to look for, tailored in the style preferred in Montsimmard with a tight bodice and flowing skirts, but modified according to Vivienne's own specifications. No train, of course, and no gemstones, but delicate lace lining a low-cut front, leaving the top of her chest uncovered with a light dusting of shimmering powder on her neck and down the slope between her breasts. One must utilize the advantages one has been given. 

The cut of her robes enhances her curves and hides that parts of her body made hard by long hours of training with a sword. At Court, skills must seem utterly effortless. No one wishes to know the pain, the sweat — the days, weeks, months, years of work. Her mask is silverite and her gloves white velvet, hiding the injured middle fingers on her left hand — breaks set and healed by her teachers, of course, but still somewhat sore to the touch, no doubt for another day. The bruises on her ribs will take longer to heal; her pride even more so.

There must be no discernible flaws in her appearance today. Anything less than a perfect performance will lose this gamble and place her in a far less favorable position.

Empress Celene is seated on a chaise longue, skirts a vibrant blue that reflects the color of her eyes, bodice tight and black; laced and covered by diamonds. Her hair is so pale it's almost colorless, and the skin of her cheeks and neck is white and pink. She wears black gloves so sheer it must seem like not wearing any at all. Her mask is black too, covering the upper half of her face, diamonds adorning the edges and circling her eyes. The blue of her eyes remains cold as she smiles. It is another facet of the Game, of course: this is not an encounter between friends. 

Vivienne curtsies elegantly, as she painstakingly learned to curtsy in front of the First Enchanter in Ostwick when she was still small and ungainly. One day, she too will be First Enchanter, and they will bow and curtsey for her like this. But that day is not yet, and if she doesn't play her cards with all the skill she's accumulated it might not come at all.

"I have heard you hold great power for one so young," the Empress says, idly picking up a piece of chocolate from a silver bowl on the table.

 _Like you_ , Vivienne thinks, but she says nothing. The words don't need to be spoken, they still linger in the space between them. The Empress is but sixteen — too young for such a position, they say. She will crumble, they say, the Game will eat her alive.

Vivienne was still two months from her sixteenth birthday, when the First Enchanter of Ostwick sent for her, early in the morning. From the first moment an apprentice steps into a Circle, they are trained for something they have no inkling about. Apprentices whisper about the Harrowing, but they know nothing of what such a thing entails, only that it separates an apprentice from a mage, child from adult, and that many do not come back from it at all. Vivienne still counts the years — eight now — since that morning. A princess of the Empire is trained from birth, not for an unknown future but for this and only this. There is no doubt in Vivienne's mind that the young girl before her plays the Game as skillfully as anyone born and bred for this purpose alone.

"Your Imperial Majesty is too kind," Vivienne replies.

Something in her voice must betray her thoughts, or perhaps the Empress has simply listened to the whispers at Court that brand as someone with aspirations far above her station.

"I do not think," the Empress says, "that humility becomes you."

 _A lesson in humility for you,_ her opponent on the training field said, looming over her. _Free of charge._

Humility wins no wars, garners no reward, claims no triumphs. The only lesson she will learn from her broken fingers is to be quicker, stronger, and to show no mercy next time to those who would dare to slight her. Yesterday may have felled her but she will not lose today. "A mage who does not know her own skill is a foolish one," she says.

"There is talk at Court, about you." The Empress lifts a cup painted in a pattern of pink roses to her mouth and sips her tea, steam rising in front of her mask. "They say you hold great knowledge and wield powerful magic. They say you possess a wicked, _dangerous_ tongue."

Raising her chin, Vivienne allows the Empress to scrutinize her. If she is looking for a chink in her armor, she will not find one.

"They say you have made powerful friends..." the Empress continues, "and that you've acquired a benefactor with great influence."

She is not wrong — Vivienne would be a fool to deny it and she is hardly that. Bastien's power and influence mean nothing in the Circle and they don't brand her any less a mage, but at Court, she will take every scrap of what his name provides her with and wield it as well as any magical blade. And she will not breathe a word of the shameful things he does to her heart, weakening her barriers until nothing of them is left at all.

He'd looked at her across a crowded room and seen right through every carefully applied layer of confidence, vanity and arrogance, and he must have known that in this game she stood everything to gain and he everything to lose, yet he didn't turn away. An unwise move — unexpected for one so accomplished. Some still claimed she used blood magic to bewitch him. If only they knew he still turns shy when she unlaces her corset. Let them think she chose him for the power of his name, his position, his wealth; in Orlais, it's the better story.

Meeting the Empress's gaze, Vivienne tilts her head. "Then I assume your Imperial Majesty already knows I'm one of the best scholars the Circles of Orlais have to offer. If you wish for advice on arcane matters, I am able to provide that."

"The Empire has many advisers already. The sound of those who wish to offer their opinion is a constant chatter."

"Magic is a precarious thing, your Radiance. I would not recommend accepting advice from anyone but the best."

"Would that be you, humble Enchanter, perchance?"

There's a glimmer in the Empress's eyes. She is not in the market for advice. An interest in the arcane runs in the family, as rumor has it. If a demonstration is what she wishes for, Vivienne will provide one she will not forget. "Your Imperial Majesty is well-informed," she says. "I imagine I would not be here unless you already knew that. May I?"

Vivienne does not usually bring the hilt to Court. One of her staves, of course — they show anyone who looks who she is, what she is, brand her as an outsider as much as her robes. The hilt is too small and obscure to serve the same purpose. She brought it this time for a reason.

Hands growing restless as she waits for the required permission, she refuses to let them fidget, remaining absolutely still until the Empress slowly, with an Orlesian flair for the dramatic, nods.

Her injured fingers ache as she grips the hilt, and the sword springs to life at her touch. The bruises down her side chafe against her corset as she assumes a tightly controlled position. Training with a blade in one hand and a staff in the other is thoroughly physically demanding, more so than any other magical field. Those who seek to master it are not to be underestimated, even if their connection to the Fade is less than Vivienne's — she is learning this the hard way. She endured the pain of having her fingers pulled straight without flinching, watching her opponent smile — well-earned, but no less aggravating. She would not best her again, Vivienne would make sure of that.

The Empress's face is pale but unflinching in the light from her spirit blade. Her features show no emotion under the mask, but the change is palpable nonetheless; the Empress is impressed. Vivienne will not be a jester who performs parlor tricks for the Court to laugh at, but the Empress does not need to know that. 

It will be obvious to all, in time.

 

3.

The letter smells of lilacs from Ostwick's garden and the salt and tang of sea air from the journey.

In her rooms at the Palace, Vivienne takes her time opening the letter, studying the beautiful stationary, the slope of the writing on the envelope, the weight of it in her hands. It's been _months_ since Vivienne sent her last letter and such a wait is simply not reasonable. 

When she does finally read the letter, she does it slowly, savoring every word, punctuating every paragraph with a sip of tea. There's a change in the weather coming; putting the letter down, Vivienne rubs the aching fingers of her left hand, wasting no time in writing her reply.

_Dearest L, surely you must have tired of the Free Marches by now?_

Lydia spent her first few years in Antiva, but Vivienne does not hold that against her. She cannot say the same for her ill-advised decision to apply for a relocation. Orlais is the very air one breathes — the poor dear _must_ be regretting her decision, anything else would be madness. Ostwick is a perfectly nice place for children, but the mere thought of returning there of one’s own free will makes her shudder.

Including only the very best of Circle and Court gossip, Vivienne makes sure to also add colorful descriptions of the beauty of Val Royeaux and Montsimmard in the summer months, lovingly detailing all the things that make Orlais the only real option for those who value the important things in life. Finishing the letter, additional plans begin to take form. 

It's a well-known fact that Lydia has a sweet tooth, possessing a special fondness for Antivan chocolate, rare as it is in Orlais. She has not said so, but Vivienne suspects it reminds her of a happy childhood, prior to her magic manifesting.

Such things are not discussed, of course, but in the Circle one always knows of those who were unfortunate enough to come into their magic in a traumatic way. Lydia's powers manifested late, after her merchant parents relocated to Orlais, and that is how she found herself stepping into the safety of the Montsimmard Circle only a few days after her twelfth birthday. Not even the best healers in Montsimmard had been able to heal the damage to her left arm, leaving it with a limited range of motion and somewhat weaker than it ought to be.

Vivienne's parents were merchants too, or so she’s been told; she retained no memories of their faces or their names. Her first memories are from the Ostwick Circle: shining Templar armor and colorful mage robes, endless winding corridors, books so beautiful she dared not touch them, freshly baked bread, still warm enough to melt the butter spread on it.

Her first day: clearing the plate put before her, stomach hurting as she ran from a creature with a metal face, goosebumps rising up her spine as her hands were suddenly _freezing_ , aching, numb, as if she had put them deep into a pile of snow. Her hands always got cold when she was scared, and itched and burned when she was angry. Then — the creature raised its hand towards her and the world went flat and gray. Something was terribly wrong, something inside of her that she never knew was there was suddenly taken away, snuffed out like a candle in a storm. 

"Only cowards let their fear run away with them, child," the creature said. "You are an apprentice of the Circle now, not a brat off the streets. Do not trust your eyes to tell you what to fear. The most dangerous things in here are those on which you will look and see only beauty."

And then the creature took its metal face off, revealing a human one underneath, a woman with a face that was all hard angles, stern and serious, but not unkind. The woman put her big gloves on Vivienne's hands, and Vivienne had never felt so small.

"You must keep these hands steady. If you do, you will have a safe place, a warm bed, and all the food you could wish for. You liked the bread, did you not?"

When she was older, she would tell the story of running from a Templar on her first day in the Circle as an amusing anecdote, when it suited her purposes. The thought of a scared child always makes people lower their guards. She would not mention the hunger or the fear of a different kind when the Templar took her to the First Enchanter. Her parents' faces were already fading in the warm light of the Circle and the smell of bread on her hands. If she did not prove herself, they'd make her leave and she'd be hungry and cold again.

If she was sad at the loss of her parents, she cannot recall it. Perhaps their life was hard and the safety of the Circle a haven. Perhaps the pain of those memories simply faded with time until she could no longer recall it. Though Lydia never discussed the matter, Vivienne suspects it was far more difficult for someone of her age. Well, if she insists on secluding herself in Ostwick, the least Vivienne can do is tempt her with things she most definitely won’t be able to procure in the Free Marches.

Getting to work without delay, Vivienne calls in a favor here, applies gentle pressure there, heavily implies half a dozen things, mentions Bastien's name at a strategically precise moment, writes a missive that is only _slightly_ bending the word of law, and finally secures a shipment containing many things she could not possibly care less for, but also a small supply of real Antivan chocolates. Lydia will be simply _beside_ herself. If this does not convince her that Val Royeaux is the only truly civilized place in the world, nothing will.

She does not anticipate that her plan will be dashed in one clumsy move by Comte Renard de Gilbert, who does not even possess the competency to make a true bid for the shipment himself, rather barging in with no finesse, ruining the whole business, making a fool of himself, and putting the chocolates in the hands of the Antivan consulate. 

The previous Ambassador to Antiva was a goat who smelled like cheese. For the benefit of everyone in Orlais, he'd recently retired to the Antivan countryside, leaving the position open. The new Antivan Ambassador is as young as she is out of her depth. The noble nose is unfashionable, the smile too unguarded and the eyes too sweet. She is lovely in that way most young women are, with that undefinable, innocent warmth that some people are simply born with. Most likely related to someone of importance — Antivans do like their family ties. A glance at the staff on Vivienne's back; the smallest gasp as she realizes who Vivienne is. Well, one cannot entirely fault the girl for that. 

It is a simple task to explain to this bright-faced girl that the Comte has no rightful claims to the shipment. A little frown touches her eyes under the mask as she listens to what Vivienne says with utmost concentration and concern. Small as it is, the half-mask is clearly insufficient for that expressive face, poor thing. Maker, the depths of Antivan nepotism. 

Her tan cheeks turn delightfully red when Vivienne bestows upon her a sweet, friendly smile meant to seal this affair. "You are absolutely right, Madame Enchanter," she says, a little breathlessly. A natural reaction, of course. "I will do as you say. Thank you for your invaluable advice."

Unpleasantness handled, Vivienne sends her letter and waits patiently for the affair to be sorted.

Two days later, when there has still not been word, Vivienne returns — only slightly irritated — to the Antivan consulate. Even a young, untrained Ambassador ought to have settle such a simple matter by now. Few things are more tiresome than incompetence.

"I'm afraid the shipment is no longer available," the Lady Ambassador says, glancing up from her papers.

"Pardon?"

"I did as you suggested, of course. I looked into the matter, and Comte de Gilbert had no true claim to it." She pauses, dipping her quill in ink. "Curiously, I noticed that neither had you."

"If you had made the effort to contact me, I would have verified my claim, of course."

"Of course. I didn't see the point, however, as those claims would certainly have been false. This way, it saved us both time, and the chocolates could be enjoyed while they were still fresh."

"You must be joking." A note of disbelief has crept into her voice, entirely of its own accord.

"Madame," Ambassador Montilyet says without a trace of humor in her voice, "I never joke about chocolate."

 

4.

Spring comes, even to the mountains around Skyhold, and if Trevelyan will not maintain the garden she's gone to such great lengths to establish, someone else will have to.

Elfroot grows like a weed, but it's far more difficult to manage some of the other herbs; dawn lotus will not grow in the warmth of the sun, rashvine nettles will not grow next to embrium, prophet's laurel will not grow next to anything.

Laurent, the dear misguided boy, brought a small tree peony from the Ghislain gardens when he visited last, and though Vivienne had ignored it after reluctantly putting it in the ground, now she finds it flourishing. It does not belong here, and if it perished in the cool mountain air, it would only be natural. Some of the Chantry sisters must be tending to it, or there is no reason it would be bursting out in bloom, bright colors out of place among the humble herbs. What an unpleasant contrast, what an _eyesore_.

They ought to let it wither and die in peace, or better yet, raze it to the ground. Having spent the past few weeks in the Exalted Plains with the Inquisitor, Vivienne's eyes have grown accustomed to the bleak, war-torn landscape, making the flowers seem all the more offensive.

In the swamps, while swarms of mosquitoes sought out bare, sweaty skin and the sort of moodiness that comes from perpetually soggy boots plagued them all, the Inquisitor bit her lip, glancing over and over at Vivienne with ill-concealed concern. The words did not need to be said, written as they were plainly on her face: she'd been here before, on the hunt for something specific. Such tiresome triteness. There was nothing in the swamps that could bother her.

Next to the foliage stands Josephine, seemingly unaware of the glaring problem.

"...and the Inquisitor's chairs are being reupholstered," Josephine continues, though Vivienne cannot recall how the sentence started. "I suggested a pleasant brown and blue with perhaps a circular pattern. It's been quite popular in Antiva City as of late."

It sounds perfectly horrible to Vivienne, but at this point, who would even notice another example of poor taste? It runs as rampant in Skyhold as mosquitoes in the swamps.

"But," Josephine continues, "it seems the Inquisitor has taken a liking to fashion from Ferelden as of late."

"How curious," Vivienne says. "I don't believe I've ever heard 'Ferelden' and 'fashion' mentioned in the same sentence before."

Truly, what is wrong with people lately? It's as if they go out of their way to insult good taste. Not that it matters what sort of furniture the Inquisitor chooses to decorate her room when the only one she brings their is a foul-mouthed, perpetually food-stained urchin who wouldn't know an acceptable color combination if she tripped and fell on it.

"There's one more thing," Josephine says, "but... you'd probably not be interested."

"That does not usually seem to stop you," Vivienne mutters.

"Well, I wouldn't wish to bother you with trivialities. It seems you've had a lack of opinions lately."

Vivienne sighs. "I do not lack opinions, merely the time to voice them. If the Inquisitor will not mind her garden, someone must or there is no point in collecting all these herbs. Go ahead, if you must."

"Very well. Ser Morris suggested to me that if we intend on training our mages, the Inquisitor would benefit from additional training as well. I understand that her skills are quite impressive, but she's never had the privilege of being tutored in any particular field."

Ser Morris is an incompetent hack, of course, but even a broken clock tells the time correctly twice in a day. Vivienne does not say that out loud, though, because Josephine will feel the need to defend the poor man, and what a sad affair that would be.

"Before all of this, I believe she had just started her training as a healer in Ostwick," she says instead.

"It — ah, has been suggested to me that she may not have quite the right bedside manner for a healer."

" _That_ can be learned, if she wishes to. If not..." Vivienne sighs, rubbing a hand over her eyes. What is the point of all this tiresome nonsense? The best teachers are gone and whole libraries are burned to the ground, perished at the hands of the rebellion; a generation of knowledge destroyed.

"I did not truly think you'd have any suggestions," Josephine says, a little more softly. "As I understand it, the most talented mages — present company excluded, of course — allied with the rebel mages."

"I would hardly go that far."

"Do not trouble yourself, Vivienne. Dorian and Solas both had some interesting suggestions. And Leliana thought I should speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona first."

Vivienne makes a derisive noise, shaking her head in contempt. "I'm sure she'd provide a perfectly fine list of murderers and criminals."

"Perhaps," Josephine says, a little too cheerfully, "she'll even wish to tutor the Inquisitor herself."

The bright, sunny smile on her face is ridiculous. The art of subtlety is clearly dead, or at the very least lost on Antivans. Vivienne narrows her eyes, leveling her with her coldest glare. "You've tipped your hand, my dear."

Josephine's smile doesn't waver. "I should hope so. I've been trying for some time."

"Josephine."

"Vivienne."

"This is not the time. I'm far too busy."

"Then I'm sure Fiona will be delighted to handle the matter."

What a tiresome thing to consider. The Inquisitor has an eye for healing, if not for providing comfort while doing so or keeping her mouth closed at inopportune moments, but as long as she carries the Mark on her hand, circumstance will put her on the front lines of battle. The Inquisition must provide the people with a face they can trust, and she performs that job with remarkable skill. She lacks some of the drive necessary for a leader, of course, but such things can be compensated for with the right guidance. The Trevelyans are a family of little importance, but their name is old, and old things always carry power.

Once, in Haven, Vivienne asked her a question, the answer to which was obvious even before the Inquisitor spoke. The suddenly somber look in her eyes stung more than Vivienne had thought it would.

"Lydia was my instructor," this mage girl from Ostwick, this Herald of Andraste, said. "She was almost a mother to me."

"I never met a wiser soul than her," Vivienne said, a lifetime of living in Orlais keeping her voice steady and firm.

How fallow those words seemed then, and now. She was the best of them and now she is gone, dead, like Bastien; taken from her. There are so many more things she wishes she could tell them both, so many more things yet to come that they need to be present for.

"She must train as a Knight-Enchanter, of course," Vivienne tells Josephine. "I shall write a personal letter to the mages remaining in Val Royeaux. They will no doubt make you an offer. Knight-Enchanter Helaine would be a good choice, if she's willing."

Josephine's smile is smaller now, a sweet quirk of her lips, and her eyes are unbearably soft. "I will make sure it's one of her choices."

"No. You may offer her choices, but she will choose this one. I am quite familiar with your skills, my dear. See it done."

Josephine does not deny it, of course. "The garden is lovely," she says instead.

She is not of Orlais, and the game she plays is a work of art, a delicate spider-web of favors and contacts. Somehow, she always seems to convince all sides that they came out of negotiations the winner of the dispute. They're wrong, of course. Josephine is the one who wins, every time.

"Of course," Vivienne says, turning away from her herbs, "I am not an amateur."

 

5.

The courtyard is bathed in sunlight; it will be another warm summer day. Since Corypheus was defeated, it seems the sun simply will not stop shining — and one cannot fault it. Now is the time to celebrate and rest, before beginning anew with the next task.

"She's not terrible," Commander Helaine says.

Recently returned from Val Royeaux, she studies the Inquisitor's movements with a keen eye. Vivienne cannot deny that she is a tolerable teacher, if a little lax with her discipline. The Inquisitor takes easily to training and makes daily improvements, but Vivienne would have never gotten away with such sloppy footwork in her youth.

"A little over-eager, of course," Helaine adds, as the Inquisitor makes a dash forward, overplaying her hand in a way that is easily deflected. Cassandra graciously only blocks with her shield, ignoring the obvious opening as her barrier wavers.

"She spars often with our dear Divine-elect. Attempting to emulate _her_ would make anyone seem over-eager."

The Inquisitor takes a step back, assuming a position that is decent enough — shoulders too high, legs too stiff, but the basics are there. She attacks with her staff first, then the blade, pacing herself this time, holding position. Then, using impressively quick reflexes, she switches hands, blade suddenly in her right hand, where Cassandra — for a brief, surprising moment — is not expecting it.

The Inquisitor, graceful as ever, raises her blade and bonks her on the head with the handle. 

She almost has the time to look triumphant before she's on the ground with Cassandra's shield pressing against her neck.

"Most unorthodox," Commander Helaine mumbles.

 _That_ is the very point. 

When they trained together in their youth, Lydia used her sword in her left hand as they were taught. The damage in her arm gave her a disadvantage, but her skills were impressive; what she lacked in physical prowess she made up for with ingenuity. Still, Vivienne had beaten her before on every occasion. She did not expect the sudden shift, staff discarded as she grabbed the hilt in her right hand instead, pummeling forward quick as lightning. 

Vivienne's barrier shattered like an egg under the unexpected force. Lydia's blade burned a line down her side, and the pommel of her hilt cracked down on her fingers, fracturing the bones inside.

Only once before had she been struck so utterly helpless: the Harrowing, a test of skill and wit like the ones she always excelled at, and she had _failed_.

 _You'll meet a demon,_ the First Enchanter had said, _and you must slay it._

And slay it she did, through the raw, instinctual power she possessed even then and most of all through _luck_. What a devastating lesson it was for someone who simply did not know how to fail, that no matter how well she learned to wield her magic it would take nothing but a slip and there'd be nothing left of her. Only much later would she realize that the First Enchanter had been afraid — that the skills Vivienne possessed at so young an age were not a blessing at all, but something to fear. Still a child at almost sixteen, they had been scared to make her wait any longer.

Vivienne watches impassively as Cassandra helps the Inquisitor up, handing her a handkerchief to deal with her bloodied nose. "I can't imagine where she would get such an idea."

"I don't know if this means I should go away more often or make an effort to stay put."

"Her footwork is abysmal. Do take care to fix that before you return to Val Royeaux again."

The Inquisitor stumbles, clearly still feeling the impact of the Seeker's shield. She will learn, eventually, to not play her hand too soon and to stay ever vigilant. One day, she will be the very best, Vivienne will make sure of it. 

"I have what you asked," Helaine says, after a moment. "It wasn't easy, but I was assured they're from a genuine Antivan recipe."

"Oh, you're simply a wonder!"

Helaine actually blushes at that, all pink in her uniform. What an unexpected delight to catch her so off-guard. "Anything for an Antivan lady, Enchanter," she says, and Vivienne stiffens in surprise. 

It shouldn't be unexpected — Helaine is Orlesian, after all. Denial would only be foolish. And surely there can be no harm in it — anyone worth their salt would court the favor of those who hold the reins, and no one steers with more aplomb than the Inquisition's Ambassador. 

"Those sharp eyes are better served minding the Inquisitor's footwork, darling," Vivienne says coolly, and takes her leave.

The garden is in full bloom. For some reason she finds herself thinking of the gardens in Ostwick. There is no one to care for them now, with the Circles all abandoned, but maybe one day they will flourish again. They were always at their most breathtaking on the warmest days of the summer.

Josephine is a delight in the sun, playing a game of chess with the Commander in the gazebo, wearing a summer dress with an unfashionable number of frills. There's a flush on her cheeks and laughter in her eyes. The frown on her face is entirely fabricated — how Cullen cannot see it is unfathomable; he is about to lose in the most spectacular way and he doesn't even know it. What a beautiful sight that will be, Commander Cullen crushed and defeated; Josephine triumphant.

It is worth a detour around the garden, seeing to the Inquisitor's herbs and flowers, to not interrupt the game prematurely. Bastien's peonies bloom with unmatched ferocity in the sun, the scent of them quite overpowering.

He kissed her hand when she told him about her plans to join the Inquisition; bed-ridden, as he was on his worse days, and she almost changed her mind as she felt how weakly he grasped her fingers. But even then she did not truly think he would be lost to her. He'd been by her side for all of her adult years, and a future without him always seemed entirely unthinkable.

Lydia kissed her hand, too, when she left for Ostwick. 

"Do not dare to forget me," she said. They would see each other again, of course, but it would not be the same. Never again would they be sisters in arms, never again would she regale Lydia with stories of the Empress's Court long into the night as she rubbed the pain out of her damaged arm, never again would Lydia heal her aches and bruises after a long day of training.

 _A lesson in humility, free of charge_ , she'd said once, stubbornness turning Vivienne's skill into nothing in the face of it, and it had been the best lesson, though she did not think so at the time.

"Madame Vivienne, please feel free to cut in," Cullen says when she joins them in the gazebo, emphasizing the 'please' a little too heavily.

"Oh dear." Vivienne raises an eyebrow as she glances at the board on the table. "My sympathies, Commander."

Josephine beams like the sun, not a hint in sight of modesty, false or otherwise. As it should be; a proper lady knows how to gloat when the advantage is hers.

"Will you play a game with me instead, darling?" Vivienne asks, as Cullen excuses himself and escapes with his tail between his legs. Fereldans and their dogs; after centuries together the difference in behavior is slim indeed.

"It would be my delight," Josephine says, a cunning glint in her eyes, "though I must warn you that luck seems to be on my side today."

"Luck — is that the word you like to use?"

"Madame, I hope you're not attempting to imply anything about my honor? Only a sore loser would make such accusations."

In most areas, Vivienne truly is a sore loser — she would not know herself very well if she thought to deny it — but in this case, she is quite resigned to her fate.

Taking Cullen's place, Vivienne puts the chess pieces back in their starting places, lining the white ones up in front of her. Josephine prefers black, of course; a defensive opening always puts her in the position she thrives in. It's rather frustrating that seeing through it makes no difference at all for Vivienne's odds, though in fairness, even a mediocre player would be likely to defeat her.

Josephine moves one of her pawns, putting her hand next to Vivienne's on the table, fingers brushing her knuckles as she does so. Vivienne lets herself be distracted by it, making a thoughtless move, clumsier even then her usual fare. The little quirk on Josephine's mouth is payment enough. If she sees through the small act of deception, it doesn't seem to lessen her enjoyment.

Josephine cheats when she gets the chance, of course, if not at chess — is such a thing even possible? — then certainly at cards. She is Antivan, after all, and certain things are simply woven into their bones. She has an aversion, however, to truly playing dirty. Vivienne has no such scruples.

Perhaps, if plied with enough Antivan chocolate, Josephine will even let her win.


End file.
